


Stalled

by alexiel



Series: The Stable Boy [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Crack, M/M, Master/Servant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-28
Updated: 2011-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-23 03:41:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexiel/pseuds/alexiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a stable-boy at the Holmes estate. He's also a bit of a slut...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stalled

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted as a response on the kink meme here: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/9100.html?thread=43952268#t43952268
> 
> If you find typoes and/or errors please let me know. Thanks!

Theoretically, John Watson is one of three stable-boys apprenticed to the estate of an eccentric Dowager Countess and her two fatherless sons.

Theoretically, the two pieces of silver he receives every third fortnight are given to him in exchange for the work he does grooming and feeding and saddling the horses.

Theoretically, John Watson does respectable work. But no one pays a _stable-boy_ in silver. Not even Eustancia Holmes.

"You won't," She had told him the day they'd taken him on, "be handling the horses so much as you'll be handling my sons." She'd smiled down at him warmly, towering over his still growing frame. "Just don't let them bully you into anything you don't want to do." And John had blushed shyly, nodded his agreement, and cursed himself for a fool once he'd discovered what she meant.

"Do you want this?" Young Lord Mycroft asks as he pushes John's small body against the wall of what John's come to think of as his very own stall. "Because if you want this you have to say." And he's already grinding his cock against John's navel, fingers tight against John's hips. Mycroft has asked this same question every morning for a year now and it's a wonder, John thinks, that he still bothers. (But it is, after all, Lady Eustancia's rule.) This morning, he drags his tongue over the shell of John's ear as he does so.

"Fuck." John curses, brash and loud the way Mycroft likes, "Yes. Yes I want it. Now fuck me." And it isn't even all for show.

John's always liked sex.

The first time Lord Mycroft had approached him in this very same stall, and asked that very same question, John had been beyond eager. Too young and too lust addled to question his luck. And, just like now, he'd been already naked, already opened, and already desperate for more. So it wasn't until later, when they were finished, when Mycroft withdrew and rose to leave just as his brother, Sherlock, entered and took his place, (slim body slotting so very easily to John’s; cock pushing effortlessly into a passage wet and dripping with Mycroft’s seed,) that John had connected the dots of what Lady Eustancia had said to what her sons were doing. What they'd done every morning and night for a year now. (John hopes that doesn’t make him a whore; though the wages he receives says otherwise.)

"If you want it." Mycroft says to him; and by now it's practically scripted, "then you'll just have to ride me." And, as he does most mornings, Mycroft settles onto his back in the soft bed of chaff that only this stall has. Lazily, grinning, Mycroft rests his head on his hands and lies back to watch as John settles down onto, and around him.

Last year, that first time, this had almost hurt. Mycroft is almost a full-grown man and, fully aroused, is almost twice as thick as John himself. But now, a year in, John's grown accustomed to his girth and learned to slick himself with oil beforehand. He rocks lightly, finding his familiar, favorite, angle, then takes Mycroft in to the hilt and squeezes.

Like most mornings, this elicits little more from Mycroft than a deep, shuddering breath. (John is determined, one day, to make the elegant gentleman actually curse.) So, for his own part, John groans. Loudly.

John knows that Mycroft enjoys a good show almost as much as he enjoys the act itself. (He enjoys it because Mr. Lestrade, the head groom, is bound to hear. John, like everyone else on the estate, suspects that Lord Mycroft is rather fixated or Mr. Lestrade. Lord Mycroft can never stop looking at the man's arse even though Mr. Lestrade, who is kind to everyone and doesn't judge John though he very easily could, has turned Mycroft down flat more times than John can count.) So John carefully alternates between biting his lip and throwing his head back to expose his throat. He rolls his nipples between his fingers and, when Mycroft allows it, takes himself in hand to stroke and stroke again. While he does, he moans as loudly, as wantonly as he can. He rides at the quick, even pace he knows Mycroft prefers. (It barely even makes his thighs burn any more.)

When Mycroft comes, he does so with his hand on John's own erection, taking them over the edge together. John shouts as loud as his voice will go, then he falls forward, pulls himself off of Mycroft, and rolls over onto his back.

Like most mornings, Mycroft leaves immediately because Sherlock is already waiting his turn.

"Good Morning John," Sherlock says perfunctorily. And it makes John giggle, sometimes, how ridiculously polite the words that come out of Sherlock's mouth are given the way he treats John's body. (Unlike Mycroft, Sherlock never asks.) "I do hope Mycroft hasn't worn you out too much." Because unlike Mycroft, Sherlock can be a rather energetic fuck. And, even oversensitive as John knows his skin will be, he can hardly wait for it.

It’s John’s favorite way to start his days.


End file.
